CHAPTER I. I was asleep and dreaming—dreaming dreadful, horrible, soul-shattering dreams—dreams that flung me head-first out of bed, and then flung me back into bed off the uncarpeted floor of my chamber. But I did not wake—why should I?—it was unnecessary—I wanted to dream—I had to dream and therefore I dreamt. I was walking home from a cheap restaurant in one of the poorer quarters of... more...

THE "MODEL HUSBAND" CONTEST. SCENE THE FIRST—At the GALAHAD-GREENS'. Mrs. G.-G. GALAHAD! Mr. G.-G. (meekly). My love? Mrs. G.-G. I see that the proprietors of All Sorts are going to follow the American example, and offer a prize of £20 to the wife who makes out the best case for her husband as a Model. It's just as well, perhaps, that you should know that I've made up my mind... more...

MODERN TYPES. (By Mr. Punch's Own Type Writer.) No. XXIII.—THE TOLERATED HUSBAND. It is customary for the self-righteous moralists who puff themselves into a state of Jingo complacency over the failings of foreign nations, to declare with considerable unction that the domestic hearth, which every Frenchman habitually tramples upon, is maintained in unviolated purity in every British household.... more...

SPECIMENS FROM MR. PUNCH'S SCAMP-ALBUM. No. II.—THE LITERARY "GHOST." We will assume, simply for the purposes of this argument, that you, reader, are an innocent-minded elderly lady, and a regular subscriber to the Local Circulating Library. You are sitting by your comfortable fireside, knitting a "cross-over" for a Bazaar, when your little maid announces a gentleman, who says he... more...

CHAPTER I. The iceberg was moving. There was no doubt of it. Moving with a terrible sinuous motion. Occasionally an incautious ironclad approached like a foolish hen, and pecked at the moving mass. Then there was a slight crash, followed by a mild convulsion of masts, and spars, and iron-plates, and 100-ton guns, then two or three gurgles and all was still. The iceberg passed on smiling in triumph, and... more...

CHAPTER I. We were in mid-ocean. Over the vast expanses of the oily sea no ripple was to be seen although Captain BABBIJAM kept his binoculars levelled at the silent horizon for three-quarters of an hour by the saloon clock. Far away in the murky distance of the mysterious empyrean, a single star flashed with a weird brilliance down upon the death-like stillness of the immemorial ocean. Yet the good... more...

TO-DAY'S AMUSEMENTS. (As they will probably be advertised in the Press of the day after to-morrow.) EXECUTION OF THE LITTLE PEDLINGTON MURDERER.—Reserved gallows seats, immediately behind the drop, commanding a clear view of the dying struggles, with chance of hearing the criminal's last confession; Lady's ticket Two Guineas. Lady and Gentleman's, ditto, three guineas. (8.30 A.M.)... more...

THE BOOK OF STIFFUN ORRORS. CHAPTER I.The Characters Personally-Conducted by the Author to Reykjavik.STIFFUN ORRORS was a gigantic fair-haired man, whose muscles were like the great gnarled round heads of a beech-tree. When a man possesses that particular shape of muscle he is sure to be a hard nut to crack. And so poor PATRICKSEN found him, merely getting his own wretched back broken for his trouble.... more...

VOCES POPULI. A ROW IN THE PIT; OR, THE OBSTRUCTIVE HAT. SCENE—The Pit during Pantomime Time. The Overture is beginning. An Over-heated Matron (to her Husband). Well, they don't give you much room in 'ere, I must say. Still, we done better than I expected, after all that crushing. I thought my ribs was gone once—but it was on'y the umbrella's. You pretty comfortable where you... more...

VOCES POPULI. AT THE REGENT STREET TUSSAUD'S. Before the effigy of Dr. KOCH, who is represented in the act of examining a test-tube with the expression of bland blamelessness peculiar to Wax Models. Well-informed Visitor. That's Dr. KOCH, making his great discovery! Unscientific V. What did he discover? Well-inf. V. Why, the Consumption Bacillus. He's got it in that bottle he's... more...